


Buttered Popcorn

by raving_liberal



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, Gen, KIeak-up, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah Puckerman: Home Invader, Christmas De-Ruiner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttered Popcorn

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2011 Chrismukkah Fest at [Puckurt](http://puckurt.livejournal.com)

Kurt Hummel is not sulking, because Kurt Hummel doesn’t sulk. Sulking is beneath him, and besides, that paltry little word can’t even begin to encapsulate the depths of his current unhappiness. Everything is going wrong in this stupid little town during this stupid little holiday, and Kurt wants nothing more than to drive over to the Meadowbrook Baptist Church just so he can kick the light-up plastic Baby Jesus in the middle of the ridiculous illuminated nativity scene.

He’s not going to cry again. He’s _not_! He’s not going to keep replaying that conversation in his head, either, because what good is that going to do him? Blaine’s regretful little sigh at the start of the phone call, and Kurt knew, just from that, what kind of call it was. He should have hung up the phone at that very moment, but no, Kurt’s a glutton for punishment, apparently, so he let Blaine go through the whole spiel of how much he misses Dalton, how much he misses his friends, how being home for the holidays and seeing everyone made him realize how out of place he feels at McKinley, and maybe Kurt shouldn’t come spend Christmas with him after all. Does Kurt understand?

Kurt understands. He understands quite well, and he’s simply biding his time waiting for the follow-up phone call, which inevitably is going to come at the most painful and least opportune moment. Maybe Kurt’ll get especially lucky, and Blaine will call while Kurt is in the shower—where Kurt, sniffing at himself, acknowledges he desperately needs to go right now—and just leave it as a voicemail on Kurt’s phone.

He pointedly leaves his phone on his bed while he goes into the bathroom, willing it to just ring and get it over with. Sure enough, the dulcet tones of “Perfect” echo from the bedroom right as Kurt has the water temperature where he likes it, at just-below-scalding, though an ice cold shower might better fit with the feeling in his stomach at the moment. Kurt pulls off his clothes and steps into the shower, where he stands under the spray until the hot water runs out.

Finally, Kurt can’t stave off the inevitable, so he gets out of the shower and towels off, wrapping the towel around his waist and tucking in the end. He peers at his face critically in the mirror. “You look pitiful,” he says to his reflection. “Really. Just pitiful.”

Kurt wanders back into his bedroom and stares mournfully at his phone, not able to bring himself to check the voicemail. After a moment, he decides the only appropriate course of action is to go down to the kitchen, still in his towel, and eat the entire carton of Crème Brûlée Ben & Jerry’s he has squirreled away in the very back of the freezer, safe from Finn’s locust-like need to devour everything in sight.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, carton and spoon in hand, when he hears the back doorknob rattling. Kurt drops the spoon onto the floor— _such a clatter!_ —and springs to the kitchen doorway to peer down the hallway to the back door. Yes, something is definitely being jiggled in the lock! Kurt doesn’t really have enough time to formulate a plan before the door squeaks open slowly, and someone starts creeping down the hallway.

Kurt presses his back against the kitchen wall, heart racing. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if Kurt can just get upstairs to his father’s room and hide in the closet—no, no time to acknowledge any irony in that thought—he might at least be able to defend himself with the handgun if the intruder isn’t satisfied with what he finds on the lower level of the house. Kurt puts his hand on the corner of the towel around his waist, and as the home invader passes by the doorway, Kurt whips the towel off his waist and over the interloper’s head, giving him a hard shove backwards as he runs upstairs and into his dad and Carole’s room. He doesn’t dare slam the door behind himself, just slinks silently into the closet, where he starts feeling along the top shelf for the handgun.

Nothing.

Kurt’s eyes widen as he realizes his predicament, because not only is he huddled naked and terrified in a closet—yes, fine, in the face of potential demise the irony is that much worse—but he has absolutely no means of defending himself. His eyes slide to the shoe rack on the bottom of the closet, just as the bedroom door flies open.

With a shriek, Kurt starts plucking up shoes and chucking them out the closet door and at the home invader, who yells in pain when one of Carole’s heels hits somewhere in the vicinity of his head. Kurt can’t tell for sure, due to the low lighting, but he hopes the son of a bitch got it right in the eye. The invader retreats out of the bedroom and slams the door behind him, right as Kurt leaps from the closet with an armload of shoes.

“I just want you to know, I have a gun, and if you don’t leave this house—”

“Hey! I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get out of this—”

The intruder’s voice is awfully familiar. “Puck?” Kurt shouts.

“Kurt? Kurt Hummel?” the intruder calls back weakly. “What the hell, man?”

“Why are you in my house?”

“Why did you throw shoes at me?”

“ _Why are you in my house, Puck?_ ”

“You threw a _towel_ at me, dude. Are you... naked?”

Kurt lets out a loud groan of frustration. “If you must know, _yes_ , but only because I thought you were a home invader, you idiot. Do you have my towel?”

There’s a pause and Kurt thinks he hears a slight chuckle. “Yeah, it’s right here in the hallway. You wanna come get it?”

“I’m opening the door. Hand me in the towel,” Kurt says.

“You’re no fun,” Puck mutters, but when Kurt cracks the door, Puck’s hand thrusts in, gripping the towel.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, wrapping it around himself again, slightly higher this time. “Now, I’m coming out and walking across the hall to my room, where I am getting dressed. You go... sit in Finn’s room or something, until I’m decent. Then I’ll figure out what on earth you’re doing here and what I’m going to do about you.”

Kurt hears Puck obediently trot down the hall to Finn’s room, and only then does Kurt cross the hallway to his own bedroom. He spends a few minutes debating between dressed-down pity-party apparel and something that he might actually wear in front of people, then decides Puck posing as a home invader absolutely does _not_ qualify as “people,” so he puts on a moderately snug pair of jeans, the warmest and comfiest sweater he owns, and a pair of cashmere socks.

When Kurt leans in Finn’s door, Puck’s just sitting there on Finn’s bed, not messing with the computer or poking around. He looks up at Kurt and gives him a nervous smile, and Kurt can see a little cut on Puck’s cheek.

“Is that from the shoe?” Kurt asks.

Puck shrugs. “Unless you threw something else at me, too, then yeah.”

“ _Good_ ,” Kurt says. “Serves you right for scaring me like that! Why were you breaking into my house?”

“I wasn’t breaking in, dude,” Puck says, shifting uncomfortably. “Finn showed me where the spare key was. He said I could use it if I ever needed a place to crash, and, well.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you call? I’d have let you in.”

“Thought you were supposed to all be on some kind of family trip,” Puck shrugs. “Didn’t think anybody’d be here and I could just stay for a couple days until my mom cools off.”

“What happened with your mom?” Kurt asks, sitting down next to Puck on the bed. Now that Kurt’s anger is fading, he can see that Puck really doesn’t look that great. Not only does he have the cut under his eye, but he has dark circles as well, like he hasn’t been sleeping or maybe, absurd though the thought seems, like he’s been crying. His body seems tense, the way he’s perched on the edge of Finn’s bed.

“Yeah, she threw me out,” Puck says. “Not like it’s the first time, but. Hard to find someone to stay with, this time of year.”

“Oh, Puck, I’m so sorry,” Kurt murmurs, patting Puck tentatively on the shoulder. “I had no idea. What happened?”

“She found my porn stash.”

Kurt tries very hard to bite back the snort of laughter. “And... that surprised her? I thought everybody knew about that.”

“Not that one, dude,” Puck says, not quite meeting Kurt’s eyes. “The, uh. The other one.”

“The other one? What kind of—oh,” Kurt’s eyes widen. “ _Oh_. Seriously?”

Puck shrugs. “Man of varied tastes.”

“Obviously,” Kurt says, shaking his head. “Well, so, regardless of why you’re here, I suppose, here you are. I obviously can’t kick you out onto the streets, we have plenty of space, and it’s not entirely terrible to have someone else in the house with me on Christmas eve.”

“Thanks, dude,” Puck says, and the look of pitiful gratitude on his face actually makes Kurt feel a little guilty about throwing that shoe at him. “So, why aren’t you with the rest of your family?”

Kurt wrinkles his noes. “ _They_ went to the low-rent redneck Disney Land alternative,” he says. “ _I_ was supposed to be spending my Christmas eve and Christmas day with my boyfriend.”

“Redneck Disney Land?”

“ _Dollywood_ ,” Kurt says, not able to keep the disgust from his voice.

“Dollywood. Oh, like Dolly Parton, with the,” Puck makes a hand gesture clearly meant to indicate large breasts.

“No, Dolly Parton the world-famous NASCAR driver,” Kurt snaps. “Yes, Dolly Parton with the... the...” He can’t bring himself to mime large breasts, so he just gestures vaguely in the direction of his own chest, which makes Puck laugh. “So glad I can entertain you.”

“Better entertainment than I’d have had at home, anyway,” Puck says. “But hey, you said you were supposed to be with your boy-toy. Why are you here?”

Kurt frowns. “Communication issues,” he says, simply, and Puck seems to have enough wits about him to not press the issue, for which Kurt is extremely grateful. “I’m putting off listening to my voicemail. Would you like to come downstairs, eat some popcorn, and watch an entirely non-Christmasy movie with me? Preferable with lots of explosions? Maybe with people getting shot in the face?”

“It’s a Hanukkah miracle!” Puck says. “Sounds great, dude. You make the popcorn, and I’ll find something loud and explodey.”

They walk downstairs and Kurt busies himself in the kitchen making popcorn. When he comes out to the living room, however, Puck is not, in fact, watching something with explosions.

“Puck, you’re aware that you’ve put in _When Harry Met Sally_ ,” Kurt says, handing Puck a bowl of exceptionally buttery popcorn. “That’s not an action movie. It’s a romantic comedy.”

“I know. It’s one of my favorites,” Puck says, accepting the popcorn. “It’s sweet and it’s funny, plus, Billy Crystal is one of the greatest Jewish comedians that’s ever lived.”

“I... have no response to that, actually,” Kurt says, shrugging as he takes a seat on the sofa next to Puck. “I love it, too, even if I have a hard time overlooking the overuse of shoulder pads. The 80s were _so_ tragic.”

They watch the movie in companionable silence. Well, Kurt watches in silence; Puck quotes half the lines along with the movie. Apparently Puck really was serious about it being one of his favorites, and while, yes, this whole thing could be very weird, Kurt finds himself strangely comfortable and not at all weirded out.

By the time the movie is over, Kurt finds Puck’s head resting on his shoulder, the empty popcorn bowl in the small space between their hips. Puck doesn’t stir through the credits, his breathing slow and regular. Kurt carefully slides out from under Puck’s head, leaning him over against the sofa cushions, then tucks a throw blanket around him.

“I think I like you better like this,” Kurt says, softly. “You’re almost sweet.”

Despite the trauma of the break-in-that-wasn’t and the sinking feeling regarding that voicemail that Kurt knows he really does need to listen to, it hasn’t been too awful of a Christmas eve. Not a great one, but not as bad as it could be. If nothing else, it hasn’t been the _worst_ , an honor reserved for that first Christmas after his mother died, and it hasn’t even been the second worst, which was the year he was twelve and his father decided that what they were lacking in their life was a last minute Christmas lights display. The resulting fried power box left them without lights, heat, or holiday dinner; that was definitely worse than this Christmas eve, because at least he and Puck had popcorn and 80s rom-coms to keep themselves entertained.

Kurt has delayed the inevitable enough. He has a voicemail to listen to. Maybe it’s not what he’s expecting, though. Maybe it’s an apology, or an “I miss you,” or even a plea to drive out to Weaverville to spend Christmas day. After all, the evening’s already turning out a lot more upbeat than originally anticipated. By the time Kurt’s in his room, pressing the button to access his voicemail, his spirits have perked up somewhat. Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that.

It is as bad as all that, of course, and Kurt’s only recently raised spirits crash with the first “Kurt, I’m so sorry, but...” It’s all downhill from there, with the cliched “not you, it’s me” and the “I hope we can still be friends,” when all Kurt really hears is, “I like my old life a lot more than I like anything about you.”

He’s had the better part of the last day to prepare, so it shouldn’t be as crushing of a blow as it ends up being, but really, on top of the drama of the evening, it’s just too much. Kurt starts to sniffle, then he starts to cry, and then he just gives it up entirely and flings himself down on his bed, sobbing loudly.

“Hey, Kurt,” he hears Puck say from the doorway. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Kurt just cries harder, burying his face into his pillow. He can feel Puck sitting on the bed next to him, one warm hand on the middle of Kurt’s back, rubbing in small circles.

“Hey, shhh,” Puck murmurs. “Whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay, alright? I’m here and we’ll figure it out, and it’s gonna be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Kurt cries. “Blaine Anderson _ruined my Christmas_!”

Puck’s hand freezes on Kurt’s back. “Wait. _Wait_. This is about _Blaine_? Blaine Anderson ruined your fucking Christmas?” Puck snorts. “I thought someone had _died_ , you asshole!” He gives Kurt a hard shove.

“My heart is broken,” Kurt says, sitting up and wiping his hand across his eyes. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”

Puck’s eyes roll around so hard that the facial expression should comes with a slot machine sound effect. “Could you _be_ more melodramatic?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Kurt says, scowling at Puck.

“So, what? He dumped you or something?” Puck looks at Kurt expectantly and Kurt finally nods his head. “Well, boo-fucking-hoo. Sounds more like he ruined his own Christmas, not yours.”

“How exactly,” Kurt asks, his voice cold, “do you figure that?”

“See, it’s like this,” Puck explains, stretching out on Kurt’s bed and making himself a little _too_ comfortable. “You got to spend Christmas eve hanging out with me, eating popcorn, watching one of the best romantic comedies ever made. Hell, you even got to throw shoes at me, which you know what? There’s a lot of people who would pay for that pleasure. What’s Blaine got?” Puck pauses, like he’s waiting for Kurt to answer. When Kurt doesn’t, Puck rolls his eyes at him again and continues. “Well, okay, so I don’t know exactly what Blaine has, but I know what he doesn’t have, and that’s you, dude. I think that’s way more his loss than yours.”

Kurt can’t deny that he likes the sound of Puck’s version of events a lot more than he likes his own spin on the situation. “Do you think that, really?”

“Dude, would I lie to you?” Puck asks, and Kurt raises an eyebrow. “ _No_ , I wouldn’t. Absolutely no reason to. I’m serious, this is Blaine’s loss, not yours. He’s got Warblers and those stupid-looking uniforms. You’ve got me.”

This time, Kurt is the one who rolls his eyes. “Yes, well. You’re here, at the very least, but I don’t know that it’s a suitable trade for a boyfriend.”

“What? You’re saying I’m not boyfriend material?” Puck sounds practically offended.

“Honestly, Puck?” Kurt sighs. “I don’t think I could call myself a very good judge of boyfriend material at the moment. You’re very attractive, of course, and you certainly put in a good effort with Lauren—not that that’s exactly a vote in favor of boyfriend material from my perspective, you understand—but I think that—”

“Hey, varied tastes, remember?” Puck interjects.

“Yes, yes. Varied tastes, fine,” Kurt says. “Still, I’m not sure your varied tastes do much in the way of improving my holiday mood, I’m afraid.”

“That a challenge?” Puck asks, propping himself up on one arm.

“What? No, it wasn’t intended to—I mean, I certainly wasn’t planning on—” Kurt feels his face flushing and he tugs at his sweater a little. “Did... did you _want_ it to be?”

Puck grins. “Do _you_ want it to be?”

Kurt hadn’t noticed Puck moving, but suddenly he seems significantly closer to Kurt on the bed than he was a moment ago. “I, uh. I’m really not, I mean. My boyfriend only just—”

“Made the stupidest mistake of his Dapper-Dan-greasy-haired life? Yeah, he sure did,” Puck says, and goodness, he’s almost _crawling_ across the bed to Kurt.

“This is a pity thing, isn’t it?” Kurt sighs. “And I appreciate it, I really do, it’s just—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Puck asks. “Seriously. Do you ever stop feeling sorry for yourself? No, this isn’t a _pity_ thing. It’s a _you’re hot as hell and I finally got you alone_ thing. Damn, Kurt. I swear, I’ve been trying to mack on you for weeks and you don’t even _notice_!”

Before Kurt can respond, Puck’s right there, his face so close to Kurt’s that Kurt can feel Puck’s hot breath. It smells like buttered popcorn, and when Puck’s lips press against Kurt’s, they taste like popcorn, too. Kurt fully intends to push Puck away immediately; that’s why he puts his hands on Puck’s chest, to push him. “Immediately” turns into “soon” turns into “maybe, at some point, when Kurt finally gets tired of kissing Puck.” Puck’s arms wrap around Kurt’s waist, pulling him forward into Puck’s lap.

“That taste like pity?” Puck says, his lips brushing against Kurt’s ear.

“No. Popcorn,” Kurt answers, giggling.

“You want me to stop so you can keep feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Puck smirks a little. “Yeah, didn’t think so,” he says, rolling Kurt over onto the bed, and pulling off first his own shirt and then Kurt’s sweater, running his hands all over Kurt’s body from his neck to his thighs. When Puck slides his hand up the front of Kurt’s jeans, Kurt gasps and squirms. “Need me to stop?”

“Not...yet?” Kurt says. “Maybe at some point?”

“Only as far as you want, alright?” Puck says. “Just tell me how far you want and that’s how far I’ll go.”

“You could, um. It’s okay if you want to touch me again,” Kurt says. “It’s really nice.”

“Nice, hmm?” Puck asks, pressing his palm flat against Kurt’s hardness. “Only nice? I can stop if it’s just nice.” He moves his hand in a slow, gentle circle.

“It’s _lovely_ ,” Kurt sighs. “Oh, Puck, _please_ don’t stop!”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Puck says, then he’s kissing along the side of Kurt’s face and along Kurt’s neck, his hand still stroking Kurt through his jeans.

“Could we try without the jeans, do you think?” Kurt asks. “For both of us?”

“Best damn idea I’ve heard all night,” Puck agrees, stripping off his own jeans and then pulling Kurt’s down his hips slowly, seeming careful not to snag Kurt’s briefs as he does it, true to his word about only going as far as Kurt wants. When his hand returns to Kurt, Kurt can’t help but arch up into Puck’s touch, reaching out with his fingertips to stroke Puck through his boxer briefs. Puck responds with a low moan against Kurt’s neck, then their mouths find each other again. With Puck’s lips on his, Puck’s hand caressing him, and the smooth slide of Puck’s skin against his, it’s not long before Kurt finds himself shuddering and crying out, Puck doing the same only moments after.

In the quiet stillness after, Kurt lies there in Puck’s arms, not even trying to make sense out of what just happened. It’s enough that it happened, that it was good, and that for whatever strange reason, he’s currently wrapped in Puck’s arms.

“Christmas still ruined?” Puck murmurs.

“Can’t really say,” Kurt answers. “Christmas eve has been drastically improved, but Christmas isn’t for another, oh, almost seventeen minutes. It could, in theory, still be ruined.”

“Well, then I guess you’d better let me know when it’s been seventeen minutes,” Puck says, nuzzling Kurt’s cheek. “‘Cause I’m taking that as a personal challenge.”


End file.
